


the one with all the pocket money

by abusedtrademarkemoji



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Attempt at Humor, Crushes, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Peter, ish, mj is a stripper, peter is an uber driver, what college students would do for a klondike bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 05:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15381327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abusedtrademarkemoji/pseuds/abusedtrademarkemoji
Summary: “You mean MJ’s a stripper? Dude, that’s awesome.”“…I guess.” Peter’s thumbs wrestle each other and he can’t quite reach Ned’s stare, or match his level of enthusiasm.“Sorry, but she’s like, so out of your league now.”[or, peter might think mj is a stripper, but more importantly, he would drive to the end of the earth to see her in fishnets]





	the one with all the pocket money

**Author's Note:**

> took a lil break while i try to figure out the pacing of my WIP. hope you have as much fun reading this as i had writing it! and again comments and criticisms are very welcome. also please note that this was a borrowed idea from a tumblr post that i have since lost from many years ago. like i couldn't even tell you what fandom it was. if you know what it is tell me in the comments !!
> 
> e: had to make a quick edit to the summary + formatting but i'll get back to your comments asap

Peter loves college. Like, so much, you don’t even know. Sure he struggles financially and for the first time since her being his guardian, he is away from May, but Ned lives across the hall of his residency and his classes are so cool! There are minimal complaints from Peter. He learns of new coding in compsci to deck out his suit and microbiology for healing and chemistry for his web formula and the list continues. Adjusting to Cambridge came easily, but there’s a little bowl of dread that is filled with yet another teaspoon of guilt day by day. MIT is expensive, incredibly so. Even after his partial-scholarships, he still has to pay out-of-state tuition. Except Peter ran into a string of good fortune in 2016, a good fortune titled: Tony Stark, the fucking billionaire™.

This billionaire had the nerve to sponsor for Peter’s education, and when Peter argued, Mr. Stark simply stated that he is finally reimbursing his protégé for his eight years of not dying post-Berlin. Then the line went dead, and Peter knew that trying to wager with him any more would be futile. On the other hand, Aunt May did manage to strike up a deal in which Mr. Stark would pay for _only_ tuition, residency, the cheapest dining hall meal package, and a parking pass. Meaning Peter would have to find a way to pay for textbooks, gas, and you know, fun. Fun like nerd conventions with Ned, or new lab materials, or pitchers of draft for Tuesday’s bar trivia.

But money is tight, as previously stated, and the money he’s saved from his gap year has run completely dry. So Peter uses everything he has to his full advantage—a 2003 Honda Civic and his smartphone. And thus, he downloads Uber to begin his first tour tonight, two weeks into third year.

He finished studying at ten o’clock, showered and ate, and an hour later he is fully prepared to begin the night. Key in the ignition, music on shuffle, Peter pulls out of the parkade.

His first ride is boring, which is a good thing, he thinks. Peter didn’t die or mess up in any capacity, so he rules it as a success. In the quiet of the night, he was even able to review compounds in his head for o-chem. The days are warm in September, but this late at night there is a chill in the air. Nevertheless, Peter drives with his window open just a crack so that the cold wind can wake him up a bit.

The second and third rides are all about taking party people to parties for other people. They’re loud and obnoxious and really, really entertaining. That’s the catch with most drunk people, they’re all a bother until you’re one of them. The third group—three girls and a guy perched in the middle of two—even make an effort to include him in their chipper conversation. Alas, there are too many inside jokes and slurring of words for him to fully understand, but he appreciates the effort since it made time pass more quickly.

Fleetwood Mac is playing softly on the radio and the dashboard reflects the tinny orange of the streetlights as Peter cruises downtown Boston. When he gets an alert to pick up a Mary-Jane at 22 Lagrange Street, he navigates his way and readies himself for what will be his sixth rider of the night.

He’s never been to this part of town before, or at least not this late at night. It looks a bit surreal to him, the grimy neon lights that reflect in the puddles from the evening drizzle, accompanied by the swinging wires from telephones poles as they sway in the late summer breeze. It’s one of those alternate realities type things, like the lighting section of Home Depot or Midtown during the summer break. Peter zones out until he jolts at the tapping on his window.

He wasn’t expecting to see Michelle Jones, of all people, standing in the dark covered in body glitter. Later he will feel awful about it, but he can’t make eye contact at the moment, he is too preoccupied leering at her exposed midsection and the low-cut top that reveals her collarbones.

“Can you unlock the door?” Her words stir Peter out of his daze. He unlocks the door, and she turns to open the door to the seat behind him, even gets one foot in, before saying “ah, fuck this.” Then MJ marches around the front of the car to get to the passenger door. This is how he notices the rest of her get-up. She’s dressed in a tight red two piece and thigh high boots. Over that is the weird stuff, a cheap latex fire jacket and high-vis suspenders. To top it all off is a flimsy plastic fireman’s helmet. “Is this okay?” she asks, after briskly wrenching it ajar.

“Yeah!” In an attempt to look a tad less desperate, he clears his throat and corrects himself, quieter and less squeaky this time. “Yeah. of course.”

She removes her helmet upon entering, and after she buckles herself in, Peter turns back onto the road. Is MJ a stripper? He doesn’t want to ask but, wow. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Sex workers are workers, end of story. But he wasn’t expecting that, not one bit. She’s been in his car before because of Acadec and from being pseudo-friends, so she adjusts the seat and makes herself comfortable. MJ even tunes the radio to something more familiar to her.

Once the song finishes playing, she voices, “so you aren’t going to say anything?”

“Uh, I didn’t know if you wanted me to.” She gives him a quick once over. The hairs on his forearms raise and his toes curl.

“Of course I do, I haven’t seen you since commencement. What’s life at MIT like?” Peter appreciates her casualness; it makes everything so much easier.

“It’s been good, really good. Classes are interesting, and I still have Ned, so there’s that.” He trails off thinking about how uninteresting it must sound to MJ’s ears. She has always possessed the ability to make him nervous, now more than ever. “What about you? It looks like you’re probably having more fun than I am.”

“Ha!” It bursts out of her so unexpectedly she surprised not only Peter, but herself as well. “Cheeky, aren’t you, Peter? Why, yes. I’m just trying to make some extra cash on the side. God knows my future internships won’t pay me nothing.” Since he made her smile from his off-hand comment, it makes him sink into his seat, finally at ease.

“When did you start?”

“Pretty much as soon as I came here. My craigslist roommate works here and gassed me up. And here I am, two years later and making bank.”

“I’m glad you like it. It definitely beats hauling drunk people to get a donair.” And then her laugh washes over Peter and it makes him pink in the cheeks. Thank god its dark out, thank god her eyes stay on the road in front of them.

Between 90’s R&B and amicable conversation, the time passes quickly enough until it’s over. Michelle tells him where to turn off and pull over, and he notes that she lives exactly half way between his school and Harvard, just across from the Whole Foods. “Hey. Thanks for the ride, Parker.” She shoves a wad of cash in his hand.

“You… you don’t have to tip me.”

“I know. But apparently I was pretty good tonight, so I thought I’d be generous.” She turns to leave but can only take three steps before Peter interrupts her.

“Wait! You gave me like forty bucks, and basically all in singles.”

“Well, yeah.” She looked at him like he was dumb.

Oh. His ears burnt an infernal red.

Once he witnesses her safely making it into her apartment complex. Peter tries to do a few more rounds, but the second he realizes perhaps he is too tired and distracted to drive now he heads back to campus. With his mind constantly wandering back to her, it’s a miracle he hasn’t gone off the road yet. At four in the morning, he retires to bed and sleep overcomes his curiosity.

* * *

 Ned receives the news exactly how Peter expected him to. He flails and falls out of his desk chair.

“You mean MJ’s a stripper? Dude, that’s _awesome_.”

“…I guess.” Peter’s thumbs wrestle each other and he can’t quite reach Ned’s stare, or match his level of enthusiasm.

“Sorry, but she’s like, so out of your league now.”

“My what now?” A grimace sets camp upon Peter’s features, his uneasiness stretches his skin too tight.

“Your league.” Ned has to spell it out for him, apparently. “I thought in high school she was maaaaybe too good for you. Only ’cause she’s going to be the president in 2036. But after becoming a stripper, she has surpassed your six out of ten mediocre ass.”

“Hey, I’m not mediocre!” His voice rises an octave reaction and Ned loans him a dubious look.

“In Cambridge you are,” Ned looks off to observe what’s happening on the street from below his dorm window, seemingly bored. “Look: I love you, Peter, I really do… but you don’t deserve her anymore.”

“Sorry, I think I missed something. When did I ever deserve her?” A beat. “Wait, not what I meant. I mean, since when have you been keeping score about us like this?”

“Since always. Or junior year I guess. There was always Something there, capital ‘S’ Something, too. Don’t tell me you didn’t see it. Everyone on the team was just waiting for it to happen.”

“We were hardly friends back then!” A defensive stance is naïve Peter’s approach to the matter.

“Duh, if you guys went any step closer than what you were back then you’d basically become a couple.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Suddenly, the back of Peter’s neck grows itchy and he has to scratch at it to soothe the tickle of caution.

“ _It means_ that there was a reason you guys weren’t all buddy-buddy in high school. If you guys even tried, your chemistry would blow up in all your faces. It’s like the dumb, stupid, self-preserving cells in your body were protecting you from getting your heart broken again,” Peter is surprised at how nuanced and sensitive Ned is for this conversation. “—and maybe getting laid,” he tacks on for good measure. Scratch that. Compassion’s out the window again, Peter guesses.

“I still don’t get it.”

“Oh my god! You guys were clearly avoiding it. If you ever took a step forward from being _just_ classmates, you’d have been in a relationship. There’s no in-between for you guys. You two were one toe away from being something more, so don’t even try to refute it.”

Peter looks back now, wonders what he would have thought back in junior year. It feels so long ago. He did always think she was pretty. The subtle kind of pretty—his favourite kind of pretty. Not in-your-face gorgeous, but like, an if-you-look-a-little-closer class of beautiful. Michelle’s brand was unique and direct. She was smart, beyond smart, and had a bone-dry humour that is an acquired taste. May loved her, even more than she loved Peter, probably. If possible. On paper, Michelle is perfectly his type.

Maybe it’s too obvious, but Peter bypasses Ned’s commentary and instead asks how his robotics class is going.

* * *

Peter almost doesn’t want to drive today. He had three lectures and a lab, he’d rather tap out and call it a night. But then he remembers how he had to buy more underwear and socks because he didn’t have time to do his laundry, and how he and Ned went to Wing Wednesday at their favourite bar. Suddenly the wallet in his pocket feels lighter, giving Peter the motivation he needed to wolf down his instant mac and get back on the streets.

Since he had to convince himself to do this, he feels like he better haul ass tonight to at least make it worth it. He figures that for every minute he isn’t wrapped in his duvet binging a sitcom he’s already watched in full twice before, he better be earning his Netflix subscription for the next _year_. He drives from Seaport to Chelsea. Picks up some Psi U frat boys to go to some place called the Toad. Pulls over to coax a kitten off the road. You know, the little things. He even gets to take his mask out to scare some dealer off from scamming a gullible teenager.

Just like the last week, Peter gets a light on his phone blinking back at him and telling him to go to 22 Lagrange. One _could_ say Peter took all safety precautions to get there in a reasonable time, but they would be wrong, because Peter ran a red light in order to save 90 seconds of not seeing MJ.

It turns out to be worth it though, for the reason being that MJ comes out of the back entrance wearing a high-waisted black body suit, complete with fishnets, faux neck collar, bow tie and cuffs. Atop her head, she wears bunny ears like a crown. A classic Playboy look. When she crosses the front, his eyes are drawn to the fluffy white tail pinned just above her bottom. Peter tilts his head, has it always been so pert? He’s known Michelle for, say, eight years? That’s a lot of time wasted not checking her out head to toe.

Great, now Peter feels gross. He disgusts himself for even thinking something so… so pervasive and toxically masculine. But then his eyes follow her lips once she enters, distracted from his thoughts by the clear gloss. When he hears her voice, he snaps out of it completely, preferring to listen to her thoughts than ogle at her body.

Michelle removes her bunny ears so she can actually sit down. “You don’t have to stare, you know.”

Perhaps he was caught red handed, but you have to give him some credit. When MJ looks like _that_ you can’t _not_ get excited. Peter turns his face, feeling so ashamed he has to look out the driver’s window so he can gather his thoughts together. So he gets the hype. He finally understands why men have made this a billion dollar industry. Women dressed as sexy rabbits? Super worth it. Does this mean Peter is a furry? Peter doesn’t really know, but he definitely isn’t going to ask. He can’t imagine what Ned would say… worse yet, MJ.

He still feels the need to apologize. “Sorry, it’s—well—when you—ugh, let me start again.” He faces forward, unable to meet her curious gaze. “You look nice.”

Her smile grows and grows until it’s a playful grin. “See? Was that so hard?”

Peter chuckles and falls back into their easy routine, cozying into his chair. “Home?”

“Yessir.” She mock salutes and there is a swoop low in his belly. Damn, she really knows how to work it.

“How was your shift?”

“Meh. Boring, sticky.” Peter’s face screws up in disgust. He can’t imagine all the shit she’s forced to deal with.

“Jesus MJ, how do you put up with that?” His concern is evident in his words, but it doesn’t weigh MJ down at all.

Breezily, she replies “I can afford a great apartment with state of the art water pressure, that’s how.” A cocky smile is displayed on her face for all to see.

“Huh, when you say it like that, it doesn’t seem so bad.” In hindsight, Peter feels thick-headed for even worrying about her in the first place. Should anyone be able to stick up for their self in the workplace, or anywhere for that matter, it would be MJ. What a badass, he thinks to himself. “If you don’t mind me asking, how much do you make?”

“I work every Wednesday and Friday so, Wednesday in just tips, I can make somewhere between 70 to 150. However, Fridays are where it’s at. I’d be shocked if I didn’t make at least 300.”

“Holy shit, I need me a job like that.”

She laughs, tells him to get his ass off the streets. “It’s not that hard, either. You just need a bit of luck, minimal work ethic and your certification.”

“You’ve got to be certified to do this?” She peers at him in a way that says _duh_ and he attempts to turn the radio up in order to escape the tension, in what he hopes is seen as nonchalant.

“Obviously, there’s a lot of work hazards in the industry, especially with grabby guys and alcohol.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense. Good for you then, I’m glad you’re careful about it.” Dubious is the only word that can accurately describe the look that MJ gives him.

* * *

When you ask Peter, he’ll say it’s a fluke. It just so happened that his 9 am class got cancelled this Thursday, which is why he’s able to drive an extra few hours late into Wednesday night.

Coincidentally, this is also the night that Michelle happens to work, but that’s beside the point.

The clock strikes two and Peter is blessed with his Holy Grail notification. He turns around and heads to his favourite block.

Striding out in a red corset and tutu, and a cape that whips in the wind, Michelle waves at him with the hand that isn’t carrying a pitchfork. Her hair is curled into voluminous bangs that shield the clips in her hair from her devil horns. Fishnets are back, Peter’s dignity is gone—same shit, different day, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

“I’m putting this in the back,” she says.

Peter is out of breath, and therefore cannot reply.

As she joins him in the front seat, he shifts. Feeling rather like a dunce, he has to ask: “Dumb question, but do you, like, have to buy all these? Even the pitchfork?”

She chuckles under her breath. “Not dumb,” she supplies, Peter assumes it’s out of courtesy. “All the girls and I share what’s under the club’s property. If I Lysol it all down, dry clean the suit, it’s free. At least this way I get some choices to work with. And it’s kind of fun, too. It’s like every day is Halloween.”

“Okay, one more question.”

“Shoot,” she says, inspecting her nails.

“Why Mary-Jane? Is that like a safety thing?”

“Oh, I kinda just like living off the grid—no social media, aliases on what I _actually_ use except for school. And Mary-Jane is after a cousin I have. She’s a total baller.”

They continue what feels like a mock talk show where Peter asks her aimless questions about her life in Cambridge, and she replies honestly. Going back and forth with some banter and bits, even a retelling of some Acadec memories, Peter’s feelings solidify. Michelle kind of owns him.

* * *

Peter must have maxed out his luck, because he doesn’t get to drive MJ home this Friday. She either got stuck with some other dude, or went home with coworkers. It doesn’t matter anyway, Peter sulks.

* * *

So last weekend was a bust. He didn’t get nearly enough homework done, and he thinks he flunked his o-chem midterm. And, he got his Starbucks order mixed up with some other Peter, so he spent the day with an acidic double blonde roast piece of garbage with not nearly enough sugar to get him through the day.

It’s all made up for on Friday night.

MJ swings out of her club wearing a full body black latex suit. So it’s the furry thing again, he realizes after discovering the kitten ear headband. Peter rolls his eyes up to the lord above and prays for mercy. He grips the steering wheel at ten and two position while he chokes up from noticing the tail that she whips seductively like a cat. Her kitten ears are endearing and completely oppose the rest of her intimidating get up. When she sits beside him, he is astounded by the cutting eyeliner and bold lipstick.

“Hey Pete.”

“H-hi.”

“You can put it in drive, love.” She really does it for him. He thinks she’s noticed too if the way she toys with his juvenile emotions is anything to judge by. At this, he revs the engine and speeds back onto the road. She slides the chair as far back as it can go, lifts her feet up to the dash and crosses her ankles over each other. The inches of stiletto heel only a finger away from the windshield. It forces him to study her legs all the way down and he has to blink himself out of his daze lest he run his car into the semi ahead of them.

* * *

He takes a cold shower as soon as he gets home.

* * *

One Wednesday, when she’s dressed like a Britney-esque schoolgirl, she says nothing at all upon entering the car. Her eyes are glassy, and her hands are folded and white-knuckled in her lap. She never looks down in spite of whatever has unsettled her, instead MJ glares straight ahead with the fury of a thousand flaming daggers.

In return, Peter says nothing. Once he’s pulled out of his spot, he reaches out delicately. Nevertheless, she flinches at his touch. He pauses, waits for her permission, then Peter’s gentle touch takes hold of the wrist nearest to him. For the rest of the drive, he only let’s go the two times when he needs to switch gears.

* * *

He’s parked beside a 7-Eleven waiting to take Karim to the airport. It’s one of only two dry days in November this year, on Friday no less, so his fingers are drumming against the wheel wishing he could get this over with. Really, he simply wants that notification telling him to go back to Lagrange Street to take MJ home. Somehow she has become the highlight of his week, and the fifteen minute car rides turned into twenty, because he’ll pretend that school zones still exist at three in the morning, or that the speed limit is 50 and not 65. MJ never comments on it though, not once.

In fact, last week she asked for a detour to grab a coffee at some 24/7 greasy spoon. So the fifteen minutes became thirty and Peter waved her goodbye with a donut in his other hand. His car smelled of cheap coffee now and, in irony, the scent had made him sleepy enough to call it a night. He drove home bathed in the sweet smell of it all, and slept with a blissful smile. He’s seen her often enough that he has picked up on a few of her habits: she always wears lip gloss—always—and she will always remove one piece from her costume, whether it be a hat or uncomfortable heels or what have you, and on Wednesdays she’ll bring a canvas tote bag with her filled with everything somehow, handwipes of lemongrass scent to clean the efforts of her night off her hands, a phone charger, vitamin e oil because Peter doesn’t know why.

Peter feels bad for rushing him, because Karim proves to be the second loveliest man he’s ever known, following none other than Steve Rogers. Don’t be mistaken, this truly is high praise. No one makes it that far up there.

If he races there with sharp turns and one potentially fatal ‘short cut’ then Karim doesn’t say anything. In fact, Peter receives a five-star rating from him, thus all is well.

In a cute French maid outfit, she dusts off her apron before buckling her seatbelt. Michelle reels off into a rant about how some of her co-workers blatantly appropriate other cultures with headdresses and geisha outfits. He never gets a word in, but he likes it better that way, anyway. In any lifetime of his, he’d always choose to listen to her. With opinions so absolute and questions so provocative, there’s no wonder why Peter, a natural student, would not eat up each fact she utters.

She continues about the ramifications of blatant ignorance until he’s parked outside her apartment. “Hey, Em.”

“What.”

“We’re home,” he laughs, “you’ve got some serious bars though.”

She bats her eyes, swerves to discover why, yes, we are home. Once the last part of his remark settles in, she grins. “Thanks for listening, Peter.” He goes to unlock the door, but her cool hand persuades his face to be magnetized back to her. She leans in and Peter’s eyes go wide. He can’t let himself anticipate her actions. Decidedly, Michelle only softly kisses his left cheek and with it, she wishes him a good night.

Just like the first night, and every night spent together since, he watches to ensure she’s made it in okay. But tonight he waits, keeps his stupefied eyes open. When a light turns on five floors above, Peter recognizes how creepy he’s being and peels away from the curb.

By choosing to ignore the rush of endorphins from her gratitude, he’s forced to look at the more subtle details, like how purely alluring it felt when he got to say ‘ _we’re home_.’

* * *

On Trivia Tuesday, Peter and some friends head to a bar that has become their local haunt once they discovered its wall of board games, cult film décor and $3 highballs.

An announcer sets the tone and introduces the teams. “Tonight we are honoured by our special guest teams who will be competing for free pitchers of draft, courtesy of Trillium Brewing Company. Here are tonight’s competing teams: ‘The Three Must Get Beers’ in one corner, ‘We like to Come from Behind’ in the other. Next we have the dashing ‘Cunning Linguists’ who follow the beautiful ‘Tequila Mockingbird’ team. Last but hopefully not least, we have ‘Sith Happens.’”

“Sith Happens? What absolute fucking nerds,” Peter hears from behind him.

“Hey!” He whips around in a 180° circle to face the bully. “Oh, it’s you. Hi.” He’s taken aback by the appearance of MJ just one table over, almost within arm’s reach, if only he stretched.

“Hi.” She’s smiling.

His breath catches. “Hi.”

“You said that already.” She’s beaming.

“And I’ll say it again. Hi.”

“Hi. I hope you’re prepared to get your ass whooped today.”

“Honey, I’m always ready.” He jokes, but she raises her brows and puffs out her chest. Ned sighs from behind him, exasperated by their not-so-subtle engagement.

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” she notes and waggles her brows in a lewd manner.

He hasn’t seen her in… pedestrian clothes in a while, but she hasn’t changed much since high school, save for the better posture and longer hair. Of course, there’s still that lone streak of coloured hair, but he noticed that their first night together. In this lighting it is much more vivid than previously, in the dingy darkness of his Honda.

When Peter gets the first question right, MJ fixes him a glare so cold that the polar bears would probably be okay again. He gives her a proud smile in return. For the rest of the night they talk smack here and there between questions, completely opposite from the hushed whispers of their teams. The banter is bright and exciting and familiar to Peter, only now it’s in such a regular setting. Nothing changes. The two still go back and forth like a pair of windshield wipers.

It’s all for naught, though, because two rounds pass and her team wins.

Just before Peter is about to leave, he looks over to where she celebrating. In good judgement, he orders them a round of tequila shots when he’s settling his bill, since it’s fitting. Peter makes sure to stay long enough that he can see the server drop off their drinks. When MJ looks at the server, he can practically read it off her lips: _These aren’t ours. I think there was a mistake._ Once she’s made the connection, she looks over to where he sits with his team. Peter’s eyes flit away, hoping she didn’t catch his blatant staring. His gazes wanders back over to her, betraying himself in seconds. She takes the shot, holds it up to him in a mock cheer. Peter’s enraptured in the column of her throat when she tosses it back, can see a drop of missed liquid trickle from her lips and down to her collar. In his stomach pools a hot liquid as if Peter had taken the shot with her. Abruptly, he stands. Peter is so quick to head to the door he misses her watching him as he does so, with pursed lips and wishful eyes.

* * *

Peter cannot believe his luck.

Both Wednesday and Friday he gets to pick up MJ. Never before has he been able to see her twice in one week.

Wednesday is his favourite costume yet. In lieu of last night’s trivia, she dresses in a sleek white dress with an attached cape, her hair in neat buns on the side of her head and a blocky, intimidating gun hung across her shoulders. The confidence behind her strut is all kinds of fantastic, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. Her smile is yet another stamp on the declaration of his love for her, which he signed many, many weeks ago.

“I love it,” he states.

“I know,” she references. Best. Night. Ever.

“What did I do to deserve this?” He still can’t quite believe it.

She tilts her head back and forth once she’s removed the gun and climbs in. “Oh, you know, buying me a drink, losing humbly. The list goes on. If I drew some inspiration from your team name, then sue me.”

“Do you want to come to my place?”

* * *

As he’s unlocking his door, he feels it, that overwhelming blur of anxiety and hope. He’s anxious that she’ll judge his place and lifestyle, he’s hoping that his feelings are returned.

“We don’t have to do anything, like, we could just watch a movie or something.” He ruffles his already messy hair. “Or, I guess you must be tired.”

“It’s fine, I’m used to staying up anyway. It’s hard to sleep when you still have so much adrenaline from work." She pauses in her speech to analyze the place and Peter's heart is scaling a mountain. "Is it okay if I shower first, though?”

“Yeah!” He exclaims a little too veraciously, then after clearing his throat nervously, softer: “Yeah, of course you can, just let me grab you a towel. You can look in my closet if something fits you that you can wear.”

She comes out of the shower and Peter swiftly analyzes her outfit from top to bottom. As if she were waiting for his approval, she stands there and says nothing. The steam and light from her hot shower swims out to encapsulate her like special effects. Michelle’s hair has been uncoiled from the two signature Leia buns and is replaced with a bonnet for her natural curls. Some tufts of hair escape despite her precautions, and frame her face gracefully. Next is one of his old science pun shirts that he forgot he still owned, all thin from being worn to death in high school. Years ago, Peter would have _freaked_ to see her in his shirt. Hell, he’s still freaking out now, almost 22. Moving on, he notices his boxers that are _just_ too big for her lanky frame. His eyes stretch wide in interest and his lips purse babyishly. He shields himself with the distraction of letting her choose a movie, during which he brings out some snacks of fruit and Nutella, and hot Cheetos, too. Once they’ve settled into the couch and the only lights still on are the television and the hallway, Peter finally finds himself able to relax.

An hour later, when Peter notices that she’s nodded off, he gets up to turn off the film and turn on the lamp in his room. Returning, he whispers, “Michelle?” Her eyes never open, but he thinks he sees the twitch of a smile. “Of course,” he laughs. He squats to pick her up in bridal fashion, takes her limp arms to wrap around his neck, and carries her to his bed. Peter lays her down gently over the sheets, and he feels her stir to get comfortable. For privacy, he turns back into the living room.

“Pete?” Michelle’s voice carries into the living area while he preps a makeshift bed of his squeaky couch.

“One second!” He decides that it’s a lost cause anyway because of the two distinct indents from where Ned and him game together. Instead, Peter grabs a mug of cool water to bring to her bedside. “Just in case you get thirsty,” he says when she stares at the cup.

“Yup, I do get thirsty at night.” Her palpable gaze plunges from his face to lower, and then lowest.

Reddening from what must be mistaken connotation, Peter goes, “right, yeah, so.” His head hangs awkwardly.

“Can you tuck me in?” Her vixen features turn innocent and new as she tries for something else. He scrunches his face up, pleased and indulgent all the same. MJ is the girl Peter has been waiting for.

After fluffing up the pillows behind her, airing out the duvet, he layers it over her lean figure. It’s better this way, when her never-ending brown legs (in his boxers!) are out of his sight. He huffs and rolls his neck back in an attempt to soothe the tension that has built in his stiffness.

This is probably the tricky part. He gets the one side done with minimum temptation, in fact they giggle in the dim lighting as he pleats the duvet into and under her side. The other side is mind-bending. Once Peter has curbed around her toes, he is forced to tuck her in from across her body. He’s outstretched and leaning over her frame to do so and when his shirt hangs and drifts when he faces downward, his face erupts into heat. Peter can feel the cool air hit his abs, and over that he can feel MJ’s stare. By hurrying to finish the job, he triggers his abs to clench and flex. At the same time, MJ stiffens. He pleads guilty, as he must have made her uncomfortable They share oxygen when his face parallels her own, and he is frozen to the spot enamoured by her eyes. She blinks up at him, then again making it twice. He is entirely too aware of his hand that rests against her shoulder, which is half visible from the loose collar of his borrowed tee. Her skin is warm under his touch and it is just as soft as Peter had imagined many, many times before.

Without choice and completely naturally, Peter’s hand grazes until its meets the joinder of her neck and jaw. He is entranced. His thumb combs over her jawline. Only when her hand rouses out and lays over his own is Peter able to get over himself. He snaps up until he’s standing so straight it borders on painful. Michelle takes one long, exhausted look at him and rolls over, bored. “Goodnight, Peter.”

“Night, Em,” the still stunned Peter utters.

Whatever courage he had when he invited her over fizzles out. After all, Peter is just a boy with no expectations, only a long inventory of desires.

* * *

Then again, on Friday, he gets the notification to pick a Mary-Jane up from downtown. In a good mood, he hums along to an old Jonas Brothers hit playing on the radio that he remembers hearing as a kid.

One day, Peter will get used to seeing MJ in erotic and glorified Halloween costumes. Today is not that day. Not when she comes out in a Spider-Man suit of clinging spandex. Peter has to do a double take. Clearly, she knows the effect she has on him because when she opens the door, she asks with a charming confidence, “you like?”

Peter chokes. “Yes,” chokes again. Wheezing, “I like. I love.”

Michelle gives him a cheeky grin. “That’s what I thought.”

He drives in silence until MJ asks him how Tony’s doing.

“So you _do_ know!” Peter exclaims this with a zeal of accusation.

“It’s so obvious!”

He inquires, “Well how long have you known?”

“Eh, probably around Washington.” She peers at him from the corner of her eyes with a smirk and in her peripheral vision she can see him whip to look at her, astonished.

“That long? Why didn’t you say anything?” He is beyond alarmed that she has known for so long and kept silent about it until now, even after sharing the last two months together.

“I figured if you wanted someone to know, you’d tell them.” He softens at her lament and admires her attitude.

Peter pauses before saying his next words. “I wanted you to know, I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“It’s okay, I get it.” She comforts him with ease, and her hand ghosts his on the steering wheel. He smiles at her in appreciation. His heart melts with the pacifying thought that there is one less person he has to hide his double life from, and it’s MJ no less.

In role-reversal, its MJ’s turn to ask all the questions—about the Sokovia Accords, T’challa and Shuri, the political shift after the impeachment in 2019—until the drive comes to an end and he’s parked across the street from her place.

* * *

Ned catches him when Peter returns to their floor, toothbrush in hand as he leans against his doorjamb, already in his sleepwear at 4 am. Ned’s no name brand toothpaste foams at the corners of his mouth. He gestures the toothbrush accusingly at Peter when he notices the grin that eats up half of Peter’s face. “Really? Again?”

Sheepishly, Peter changes the subject with a casual “late night?”

“Midterms,” is the short retort. “It’s too late for your corny shit. Goodnight,” he calls before slamming his door closed. Guess that means Peter should go to bed too, if he could shush his ever-rushing heart.

* * *

She’s telling him a story about how uncomfortable it was that as she was bartending she had to cut off her TA at the bar tonight when Peter realizes. “Wait, you’re a bartender? I thought…”

“Hmm?” She raises a cleanly carved eyebrow.

“Nothing.”

“C’mon, sound it out.”

“I just didn’t know you were a bartender.”

“Well, what the hell did you think I was, I come in here every night smelling like sweat and booze.” She flips her hair over her shoulder nonchalantly. Peter grumbles minute words, too mortified to speak the truth. Apparently, she can see right through the concealment of his thoughts because she slowly asks, “Peter, do you think I’m a stripper?” Her big wide eyes are equally curious and amused. He purses his lips, nodding. Bashfulness eats up his words, and all of his inhibitions are obvious, present, displayed on the table like Thanksgiving dinner.

“Don’t laugh, alright? It was an honest mistake. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended, really, I’m flattered.” She pauses to deliberate and the orange streetlamps illuminate her face in rapid succession—dark, light, dark, light—in flashes that pass faster than the seconds. “Pete, you really thought I was a stripper?”

“It wasn’t that hard to believe. Stripping as a profession is empowering. Or so I would think. It’s got all your favourite things: getting paid by guys who don’t get what they want, and dancing and hot music and dressing up and looking good. All for yourself. And you’ve always validated and stood up for sex workers in high school. You respect it just as much as any other profession, if not more. I’m sure it must be fun for you to piss off white guys with a disposable income. It’s practically a long-con. Hell, I bet you get off on the drinks they buy for you when you know they won’t be getting anything in ret—”

MJ cuts him off—“I love you.”

Peter slams on the brakes so suddenly that they lurch forward. He’s grateful for his heightened senses because he’s able to reach out and prevent Michelle from launching into the dashboard. At least it’s the middle of the night, and there are no other cars on the road with them. “Sorry, Christ, I’m so sorry.”

“Peter, it’s fine.”

“But you… do you…?” He doesn’t want to assume anything, doesn’t want to make an ass out of himself through wishful thinking.

“Love you? Yes.” Her grin is blinding and wicked when she laughs. He’s always admired her confidence but today it’s especially stunning. It’s contagious too, because Peter reflects the same smile. Her hands rise to hold Peter’s, which is still cradling her in protection.

“Same,” he says, lamely. He shakes his head like a wet dog. “I love you, too, is what I mean.” He’s blushing. Somehow this is simultaneously the most and least romantic moment of his life.

“Good.”

“Good,” he parrots back. “But seriously, since when? Here I’ve been, moping over my unrequited uber love, and you’ve just let me suffer the whole time.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Peter. I made it SO obvious. We held hands. I dressed as Princess Leia for you.” She lists the actions on her outstretched fingers. "I slept at your place—in your underwear, might I add—and you didn’t even try anything! Anyone would take that as a red light. I’ve been so gimmicky to get you to make a move but you never did.”

“Because I respect women? How was I supposed to know that was your segue.”

“Oh, don’t play the ‘nice-guy card,’ you asshole. Not today.” The heat between the two is cooled when they are sent into contractions of laughter. Peter admits his defeat and agrees about how vapid he was.

“So, not that this has anything to do with an arrangement of convenience, but what are the chances that you’ll be working on the 20th? Because I kinda, sorta, maybe need a ride back to New York for the break.” She’s combing over his arm flirtatiously and Peter never wants her to stop.

“Hmm, let me think.” For comedic purposes, he waits ten long mississipily seconds until he answers her request. “Since my last exam is the 18th, _I guess_ I could wait up and pick up a shift on the 20th.”

Michelle chirps a quick laugh at his coy reply. “Then it’s settled.”

“It only makes sense anyway.” He works his face to act like the fact is obvious. In reality, he has his own ulterior motive.

“Is that so?” Her curiosity peaks, intrigued by the newfound confidence behind his humour.

“Yeah, I think I have to reintroduce you to May now. But not as the team captain this time.”

“Oh, I’ve earned myself a new title, have I?”

“Hell yes, you did. Michelle Jones: stripper, president-to-be, and my girlfriend.” He uses jazz hands for effect, thus separating himself from her grasp. Not for long, though, because she reaches out to smash him into a needy, beatific kiss. It settles into something soft, with a surety that goes unrivalled.

“We should probably get off the road, huh.”

* * *

To ring in the New Year, MJ will text him after every shift. No matter the time, Peter drives her home.

 


End file.
